


Life-Cycle of the Superstar

by feverbeats



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been doing whatever Dumbledore had said was <i>necessary</i> for years now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life-Cycle of the Superstar

**September**

Harry had turned eighteen years old two months ago and he was still alive. He felt like it would be incredibly morbid to say that to anyone, though, so he didn't. He was making a habit lately of not saying things.

Of course, he hadn't really had anyone around to say anything to lately, anyway. Ron, Hermione, and the others were off helping with the war effort, while Harry was left to hide out close enough to Hogwarts that he could sneak back in every few days to see Snape. The war effort had gone underground, and the school's population had been cut down to purebloods and the children of other loyal Death Eaters, so Harry had to slip in through back doors.

"I don't feel right being cooped up there not helping while everyone else is out fighting," he'd told Remus before he left.

But Remus's face had gone shuttered instantly and Harry had realized he was spitting Sirius's words.

So he went to Hogwarts.

Sitting in Snape's office was so jarring. Harry had trouble thinking of it as Snape's and not Dumbledore's, even after more than a year. He also still had trouble forgiving Snape.

"Mr. Potter." Snape's eyebrow curved imperiously. "What is so fascinating that you are neglecting to listen to a word I'm saying?"

Harry fought the urge to say something awful and stubborn. He was too tired. "I was just worrying about how I'm getting out of here tonight, sir," he said.

Snape's expression changed slightly, the corner of his mouth twisting. "I told you to let me take care of it. I've brought you here time and again at great risk to myself because you need to learn what I'm teaching you if you ever wish to defeat the Dark Lord. Do you?" He asked as though it were a genuine question.

Harry set his jaw. "Of course I do." That was what he'd been telling people for months now, but he wasn't getting any closer. Eventually, they'd stopped trying to ask him, or he'd managed to avoid them.

No one but Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Remus knew what Snape was teaching Harry.

"Now," Snape said briskly, standing and coming around the desk, "Have you done your homework?"

It must have given him some sort of perverse pleasure, Harry always assumed, to be able to act as though he was still Harry's professor. "Most of it," Harry said.

Snape frowned. "How many _times_ , Potter? How far did you get?"

Harry reached into his bag and tugged out the book, _Secretes of the Darke Arts_. The cover was stained and warped with time and something that looked like blood. He was so used to looking at books like this by now that it didn't phase him at all. He'd been preparing for these lessons all summer, reading what Snape sent him until it had been safe to meet. "Page 104," he muttered.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Potter, I asked you to _finish_ it for today. This is not a _game_. It never was, but now things are more serious than ever. There are people, _our people_ , dying out there every day until you find a way to destroy the Dark Lord. Until you succeed, that's your f—" He actually stopped, striking the desk with his palm and looking away furiously.

Harry felt his stomach plummet. "My fault," he said hollowly. "It is, isn't it?" He'd mostly tried to avoid thinking about it.

"No," Snape said flatly. "It's the fault of the Death Eaters. Never forget that. Finish the book for next time."

 **October**

Autumn wore on and Harry was going to train with Snape every other night, apparating into the center of the Forbidden Forest before making his way through the holes Snape had left in the wards for him. Every time he walked to the castle, his heart hammered in his chest under the cloak.

He whispered the password— _asphodel_ \--to the gargoyle and let himself up the stairs, making sure to shrug his cloak off before he went in. He'd only made the mistake of keeping it on once.

This time, Snape had a caldron set up in his office, with a deep purple potion already bubbling away inside it. He didn't turn when Harry came in, apparently absorbed in whatever he was brewing.

Harry remembered the after-school special nonsense that was sometimes on at the Dursleys' when he got home. _Alcoholics are always alcoholics_. He wondered if was possible to be addicted to the dark arts.

"Professor Snape."

Snape turned, the sudden sharp set of his shoulders the only indication that he'd been taken off his guard. "Potter. Good. You're getting better at not making a racket. Sit down. Today we're studying poison."

Something in the offhand way he said _poison_ made Harry's skin crawl, heat leaping and crackling horribly down his spine in an emotion he couldn't identify. "Right," he said clumsily, sitting in the chair across from Snape's desk.

Snape gave him a lingering look. Then he sighed and said, "Potter, you know we wouldn't be doing this unless it was necessary, don't you?"

Harry didn't know. Probably. He'd been doing whatever Dumbledore had said was _necessary_ for years now. "Yeah, of course."

That didn't seem to make Snape feel any better, but he was never exactly cheerful. "Fantastic," he muttered. "Of course, no one's happy that you have to play the Dark Lord's game in order to beat him."

"I don't think that's true, actually," Harry said. He hadn't meant to say anything out loud, but he hadn't had anyone else to talk to properly in months.

Snape frowned. "What do you mean?"

Harry very carefully watched his own hands as he spoke. "Well, I think maybe if I have to use the dark arts to take V—to take him out, the Ministry and all of them will be able to just . . . Well, get rid of me afterwards." It came out far more bitter and paranoid than he'd intended, but he wasn't used to articulating these worries even to himself.

"Hm," Snape said. "You know, Potter, I never give you credit for being particularly observant, but I think you're right. In times like this, no one wants your sort of hero. They want political figures like themselves to save the world, and if a teenager loses himself in the dark arts while doing their dirty work, so much the better for them."

Harry swallowed. "So what do I do?"

"You say to hell with politics," Snape said. Harry had never seen him quite so _open_ , he thought. "Your little friends are hardly going to abandon you. They might force you to stay well away from the dark arts for the rest of your life, but they won't abandon you."

"Is that what happened to you, Professor?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Snape stirred his potion in silence for a moment. Then he said, "I never had all that many friends to start with."

Harry tried very hard not to think about his mother. That made him think of something else, though, something that had been bothering him. "Everyone tells me I have my mother's eyes," he said.

Snape stilled, his hand faltering as he stirred. His expression was completely flat.

"But I can't stop thinking," Harry continued carefully, "about how Tom Riddle had green eyes, too. But nobody talks about that, do they? Most people don't even remember who Tom Riddle is."

"Tom Riddle is as good as dead," Snape said stiffly. "That's what Dumbledore missed. It doesn't matter what the Dark Lord used to be, Potter. That person is gone. For all his wisdom, Dumbledore hasn't seen the Dark Lord like I have."

 _And you haven't seen him like I have,_ Harry thought.

 **November**

They'd been practicing for three hours already. The dark magic pooled on Snape's desk in front of Harry, swirling and bluish-black, and he found that he had trouble looking away. If a tiny pool of magic held that much power, what could you do if you had ten times that? He reached toward it almost without thinking, as he'd reached out toward Pensieves so many times before.

Snape struck him almost before he realized it, knocking his arm away. He didn't sound angry, though, when he spoke. "So now you see," he said.

Harry nodded, swallowing. He thought about three years ago, being fifteen and angry and helpless, and how no one had reached out to offer him anything to fight back with except himself. He imagined what would have happened if someone _had_ given him a weapon.

Snape drew his sleeve back, exposing the Dark Mark on his forearm. "I got this when I was sixteen," he said. "Because someone promised me my life would be better. Do you understand why I am the one to teach you these things?"

"Yes," Harry said softly. "So I won't end up like you." He didn't like to think it was possible, but he couldn't exactly afford to be blind anymore.

Snape nodded "Indeed. Now: again."

 **December**

"I have hundreds of things I could still teach you," Snape said. "Unfortunately, we've waited as long as we can. The Dark Lord is massing a force in the East End." He nearly smiled. "Of all places."

Harry nodded, just feeling numb. He felt as though he'd learned more magic in the past four months than in all seven years at Hogwarts, and if that wasn't enough . . . "I'm ready," he said.

Snape frowned and began to pace. "Ready. You won't ever be _ready_ , Potter. You're eighteen years old." He stopped and looked at Harry. "What did you think of Dumbledore, at the end?"

"I loved him," Harry said simply.

Snape frowned. "I see."

"Ask me what I think of him now."

Snape's mouth twisted, an almost vicious motion. "Ah," he said. "So you've learned that there's more to magic than anyone told you when you were eleven."

Harry nodded silently. Then he said, because he had to, "Did he use me?"

"I've been teaching you the dark arts for four months against my will. It'll probably destroy us both professionally," Snape said, his tone clipped. "What do you think?"

"I think—" Harry's voice caught in his throat. "I can't—"

Snape leaned forward abruptly, grabbing Harry's shoulders. Harry tensed. Then Snape made a face like he was terribly annoyed by something before leaning forward to kiss Harry.

Because Harry was not who he had been four months ago, instead of pushing Snape away, he instantly responded, his eyes slamming shut. Nothing he'd seen in the last four months made this a good idea, it just made it inevitable.

Snape slid his hands down to Harry's hips quickly, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, even though Harry's jeans. Harry gasped involuntarily, tilting his hips to fit them against Snape's body. For the past four months, there had been nothing in his life but gaps, except when he was at Hogwarts.

Snape hooked his long fingers in the waistband of Harry's jeans, tugging him closer roughly. Harry kissed him harder, feeling Snape's mouth slick and hot under his.

Harry let Snape press him against the desk, feeling slightly dizzy. After what seemed like an eternity, Snape reluctantly broke the kiss, looking anywhere but at Harry. His hands didn't stop moving, though, his thumbs rubbing tight circles against Harry's hips.

"You think I'm going to die," Harry said with horrible certainty. "You'd never do this otherwise."

Snape set his jaw, looking as fierce and stubborn as Harry ever had. "I would hardly have wasted my time teaching you if I thought you were going to die."

Harry nodded, still not convinced. "It doesn't matter. I'm _not_ going to die." And for the first time in years, he believed it.


End file.
